While Molony busied himself, Lee surveyed the men under his command. Some were Honduran—supporters of Bonilla before he was deposed—but many others were mercenaries, soldiers of fortune, mostly from America. There were criminals and jilted lovers, young runaways seeking adventure, and older heads seeking more tangible rewards. He knew many of them from his time in Guatemala and immediately made officers of those he trusted best: Joe Reed, Ed McLaurie, and Guy Molony.
The men arriving from Livingston huddled around Bonilla immediately. Lee watched Bonilla’s face pinch with concern before the exiled Honduran leader beckoned him over. “The yanquis aren’t happy,” he explained.
“Well, we did give their hotshot agents the slip there in New Orleans.”
“Quite,” said Bonilla. “And now they’ve dispatched a cruiser—the USS Tacoma—to patrol the area.”
“They gonna intervene?”
Bonilla took a breath. “The Hornet is still flying an American flag. Anyone on board could be charged with piracy if they take part in an engagement.”
Lee thought for a moment. “We mightn’t be bunched just yet,” he said. “Can’t we change the registration here? Or maybe Puerto Barrios?”
Bonilla shook his head.
“What if we dump all the guns first?”
“Not going to help,” Bonilla said. “Cabrera’s happy to turn a blind eye to what we’re doing here. We’re out of sight, giving him plausible deniability. But if we fly a Guatemalan flag into battle…”
Lee cursed, as Bonilla spread his hands and continued, “And we can’t take Puerto Cortés without the Hornet.”
“Goddamn it,” said Lee, before calming himself. “Okay. What are the options?”
Bonilla shrugged. “Wait.”
“But if we wait, Davíla will have conscripted half the country.”
“What do you suggest?”
Lee remembered the island he’d captured last summer. “What about Utila? We can take it without breaking a sweat and change the registration there.”
Bonilla snapped his fingers. “Not Utila,” he said. “But Roatan. The Bay Island’s governor has his office there. All we need to do is convince him to change the registration.”
“I can be very persuasive.” Lee smiled, fingering the machete at his belt.
Roatan lay twenty miles northeast of Utila. It also had no real strategic value, so resistance would be light. Flying the Honduran flag should keep the Americans out of their hair, and that damn cruiser. After a moment’s thought, Bonilla gave the order.
The Hornet slipped into Dixon’s Cove around midnight, concealed by the headland from the principle settlement, Coxin’s Hole. A direct assault would have succeeded, but Bonilla was anxious to avoid casualties and minimize property damage. He didn’t want to give the Americans any pretext to intervene.
The raiding party disembarked from their vessel as quietly as possible, directly opposite a short trail through the jungle, which should lead them straight to the governor’s office and the cuartel. Lee wasn’t taking any chances, however. There was no telling whether the garrison had been beefed up. He ordered Molony and his machine gun up to a bluff overlooking the harbor, to provide cover for their advance.
The rest of his men, he gathered at the shoreline as he issued instructions for the attack on Coxin’s Hole.
54
Lee stood opposite the path to the governor’s mansion and looked up at the headland. In another ten minutes, Molony would be in place, and the rest of the men could move out. A cry went out from a scout, and Lee’s troops raised their weapons, training their sights on the entrance to the jungle path. A lone figure emerged waving a torn bedsheet—the white flag of surrender.
“Hold your fire,” barked Lee.
Bonilla’s first victory on Honduran soil hadn’t even cost him a bullet, let alone any blood. The fortress was turned over to the rebels, and the governor affected the transfer of the Hornet with Lee barely needing to wave his pistol. Government soldiers defected as the Honduran flag was raised on the Hornet, bringing the number under his command to one hundred and thirty. It wasn’t an army, but it was a start. On top of that, he now had a foothold on Honduran soil. But he was twitchy, and his men too—all riled up for a shooting match only for the enemy to surrender.
As Bonilla took care of the formalities, declaring himself President and establishing his temporary seat of government in Roatan, Lee realized it was New Year’s Eve. He made his way down to the house where Molony and Ed McLaurie had been billeted, finding them both relaxing on the porch. “Boys, I’ve just had a hell of an idea. I wouldn’t mind spending New Year’s Eve over on Utila. How about we sail over and capture the joint?”
“All right.” Molony nodded.
McLaurie looked between the pair, raising an eyebrow. “What about Bonilla?”
“Aw, don’t worry about him. He told me I earned a holiday and can do whatever I please. Besides, he was just complaining that Dávila has put a real hijo de puta in charge of the island after what we got up to last year. The whole of Utila is under martial law. Name’s Jackson. Some American. Working for a fruit company. A real hard-ass, by all accounts. I sure would love to get rid of him. Me and Molony had a fine time there—real decent folk. And the women…”
Molony let out a low whistle. “He’s not wrong, Ed.”
“Don’t you need orders?” asked McLaurie. “Something official? We can’t just walk in like bandits.”
“I’ll get whatever papers we need.” Lee put a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, Ed.”
McLaurie thought for a moment. “Well, all right.”
“With us three, I’ll need seven more. Round up some volunteers.” Lee made to leave. “And be down at the dock in an hour.”
“Before you go, Lee,” Molony called out. “You planning on taking the Hornet?”
“Why?”
“Bonilla mightn’t be too happy.”
“Leave it to me, boys.”
By seven o’clock, Molony, McLaurie, and seven eager volunteers arrived at the dock.
Lee waved from the deck of the Centinella. The group groaned—by then, everyone shared his view that the boat was jinxed.
“Come now, boys. She ain’t all that bad!” He ignored their jeers. “I’m going to break this miserable old grease-barrel’s jinx if it takes a leg.” He grinned. “Now, git aboard and do your cussin’ on the way.”
They reached Utila just after two in the morning, half a mile east of the only lights on the island: the cuartel. At first, it appeared the lights were flickering, until they made out a guard pacing back and forth. They drew closer, noticing another building that loomed from the darkness. Voices drifted out from within. Lee crept along the corrugated iron wall, toward the entrance. His men assumed position on either side of the door and took aim. Lee knocked twice and then stood back, drawing his weapon.
A man stuck his head out. “Yes?”
He lunged forwards, grabbing the man in a headlock. “What the hell is going on here?” he growled.
The guy didn’t struggle. “A simple prayer meeting,” he said. “I swear.”
“I’m Lee Christmas.” He waved his troops down and released his hold. “These are my men. And we’re taking the island.”
The man clasped his hands together and looked heavenward. “Our prayers have been answered.” Several more congregants stepped out into the night—men, women, and children.
Lee’s brow furrowed. “Why are you praying at night? I don’t get it.”
“It’s the comandante. He has forbidden public assemblies. We always pray the New Year in, but he wouldn’t allow any exceptions.”
“We’ll see about that.” Lee turned to Molony. “Set up your machine gun on that ridge above the cuartel. Be ready.” He gestured to the rest of the men. “Keep quiet, and for God’s sake no smoking or fooling around. Don’t shoot until I say.” He faced the congregation. “Can one of you show me where Mr. Jackson’s house is?”
* * *
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Guy Molony set up on the ridge, as ordered, and trained his machine gun on the door of the cuartel. The rest of the men flanked him … and waited … watching the sentry pace out his shift, bathed in lamplight.
A shriek in the distance made the sentry reach for his weapon.
Another shriek followed, this time closer. The sentry peered into the distance, the direction in which Christmas had disappeared. As the din grew nearer, the men could make out a voice. Between cries of “Viva Bonilla,” a man shrieked in pain. Dropping his rifle in fright, the sentry ran into the cuartel.
A man wearing a nightgown came into view, with Christmas right behind him kicking him in the rear, propelling him toward the cuartel. “Say it again!” he roared.
“Viva Bonilla!” shouted Mr. Jackson, only to be booted again by the general.
“Say it again!”
The men collapsed into laughter. Christmas glowered at them, pointing to the cuartel below them. “Supposing they made a charge?”
“Viva Bonilla!” bawled the stricken comandante.
“Viva Bonilla!” replied the men, in unison.
Christmas gave him one last taste of the boot for good measure, and then grabbed him roughly around the neck, twisting his head to face the cuartel. “Now, go down there and tell your boys you have surrendered the island to us.” He shoved him down the hill, toward the enemy.
55
The garrison of Utila was only too happy to surrender and defect; the islanders were not alone in despising Mr. Jackson. Lee appointed an interim comandante until Bonilla could pick his own man, and then supervised the distribution of the armory among hand-picked locals—in case the cuartel had any funny ideas about switching sides again once he sailed out of view. Lee and his men were treated to a breakfast feast by the people of Utila, delighted to be out from under the yoke of the dictatorial Jackson.
Back aboard the Centinella, on the return journey to Roatan, Lee needled Mr. Jackson. “Don’t worry, comandante, I have some pull with Bonilla. If I speak to him, you won’t be tortured before you are shot.”
The men had to suppress their laughter, enjoying the goading.
When Bonilla heard about Lee’s teasing, he was furious, and set Mr. Jackson free immediately. He was tense for another reason, in truth. Dávila was pulling out all the stops to get the Paredes–Knox treaty through Congress. Bonilla’s sympathizers on the mainland were plaguing him with anxious messages, urging him to make his move, and rumors were widespread that the United States would step in and put down their little revolution once the treaty was ratified.
A few hours after Lee returned from Utila, another ship docked at Roatan—the USS Tacoma. Commander Archibald Davis rowed ashore and immediately demanded proof that the Hornet wasn’t engaged in anything it shouldn’t be. Bonilla showed him the Honduran registration, but Commander Davis wasn’t satisfied. He remained at Coxin’s Hole, pledging to keep an eye on proceedings.
Bonilla’s anxiety grew over the next week as the messages from the mainland became increasingly frantic. But his hands were tied while the Tacoma was in the bay. He couldn’t risk seizure of the Hornet—the only vessel quick enough to outrun trouble. Meanwhile, boatloads of volunteers poured into Roatan, all sympathizers from the mainland, eager to help Bonilla regain his rightful place in the Presidential Palace.
* * *
The deposed Honduran leader looked out at an army of women all stitching blue denim uniforms, assembling blue-and-white hat bands, fashioning ammunition belts, and tearing sheets into bandages, and then he paced back over to the table, his hands behind his back. Lee waited for his friend to gather his thoughts.
Bonilla peered at the map on the table, frowning. He stabbed a finger at Puerto Cortés. “Since our failure last summer. Puerto Cortés has been fortified, and the cuartel has been stuffed with Davíla loyalists. In short, it’s now very well defended.” He jabbed his finger sixty miles east. “La Ceiba too.”
Lee watched Bonilla trace a finger down sixty miles of coastline. “Trujillo, however, is another matter. My spies tell me it is a much softer target.”
“Makes no difference to the plan,” said Lee. “We just work our way west rather than east.”
“Good.” Bonilla nodded. “Now all we need is for this American cruiser to disappear.” He banged the table. “Damn yanquis.” He looked up at Lee with a wry grin. “Present company excluded, of course.”
A few days later, on January 8, Bonilla finally caught a break. The USS Tacoma abruptly departed, and Lee was ordered to gather his men. As he looked over the troops assembled at the pier, he held his hands aloft, waiting for silence.
“It’s time to move the fight to the mainland, boys.” He grinned. “We’re gonna come down on them like a buzzard on a sick steer.”
56
Once the USS Tacoma disappeared over the horizon in the direction of La Ceiba, the Hornet pulled out of the harbor with the Centinella and a sloop in tow. Bonilla looked at his flotilla, his yanqui commander-in-chief, thirty officers, and one hundred and fifty soldiers all decked out in their new kit, all speeding toward the mainland. Below deck the boat carried even more spare uniforms; he was expecting plenty of new recruits.
The captain killed the engine just shy of Trujillo at dawn. “Let’s go over the plan again,” suggested Bonilla.
Lee chewed the inside of his cheek, waiting for his temper to calm. “You know the plan,” he said. “We’ve been over this.”
“I want to hear it again.” Bonilla picked up a rifle. “Because I’m coming with you.”
Lee cursed and grabbed him by the elbow, marching him up to the stern, out of earshot of his men. “What the hell, Manolo?”
“San Martín fought beside his men. Hidalgo too. And Bolívar.” He exhaled through his nose. “I must take part.”
Lee wrenched the rifle from his grasp. “If you can be disarmed that easily,” he said, “you’ve no place on the battlefield. And I don’t know who the hell those guys are, but what are you thinking?”
“A real leader fights with his men.”
Lee bit his tongue. It wasn’t the time for a shouting match. “A leader’s job is to inspire his men, and there’s more ways of doing that then charging the enemy. Didn’t you see all those volunteers pour into Roatan? Haven’t you been getting frantic messages demanding your arrival on the mainland?” He put an arm around Bonilla. “These men believe in you. And you need to place the same faith in them: that they’ll get the job done.”
Bonilla pouted. “So I cower out here while all of you take bullets in my name.”
“You’re smarter than this,” Lee said. “You should understand the alternative. If you’re the one taking bullets, this revolution ends. Everyone else is replaceable. Even if I go down, goddamn it, Guy will do a fine job in my place. But if you get shot…”
Lee trailed off as Molony approached. He looked to Bonilla, and then Lee. “Everything all right?”
“What do you want?” Lee growled.
“Nothing,” said Molony, holding up his hands. “It’s just … I’ve got seventy-five men back there raring to go, and if we don’t move out soon, I’m afraid they might start shootin’ each other.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” said Lee.
Molony saluted and walked off.
“If you really want to make yourself useful.” Lee turned back to Bonilla. “Sail around to the bay and distract that cannon. Just stay out of range of the damn thing.” He placed a hand on Bonilla’s shoulder. “We need you alive.”
He was following Molony to the stern when Bonilla called out after him. “General,” he said, “what’s the range of that cannon?”
57
Lee and seventy-five of his toughest men waded ashore one mile east of their target: the town of Trujillo. Once everyone had hit the beach, Lee called Molony and McLaurie to him. “Split the men into two groups.” He put a hand on McLaurie’s shoulder and pointed at a narrow strip of land running under the cliffs that separated
them from Trujillo. “Ed, you lead your boys along this little beach here, right to the base of those bluffs yonder. That should bring you right in front of the town, but wait until we get there.”
He looked to Molony. “You’re with me. We’re going to head up the western bluff there, and see if we can take out that cannon. Once we cross that river, there’s a hill where we can set you up—”
The siren of the Hornet drowned him out. Instinctively, the men turned to face the noise, even though the vessel was out of sight. Then came the roar of the cannon, and once more the siren blared. Lee raised his hands and addressed both groups. “Settle down now, you hear? That’s just Bonilla toying with them.”
The relieved group broke into smiles.
“Now, while he’s zigzagging back and forth, driving that cannon crazy, they’re all gonna be looking the wrong way. So let’s do this.” He clapped McLaurie on the back. “Move ’em out.”
“You heard the man,” Ed said. “Let’s get movin’.”
A river separated them from the incline approaching the cannon, but Lee and his men forded it without difficulty. Pedro Gonzales—a Honduran recruit who was very eager to join the fray—was first across and immediately broke into a run up the slope on the other side. The rest of the men couldn’t hope to keep up, not lugging Molony’s machine gun and all its ammo.
“Guy, set her up here,” Lee instructed. “The rest of you, follow me!”
Lee charged up the slope, his men desperately trying to keep up. When, panting, he reached the cannon, he saw that two of the crew had been killed and a third wounded. But there was no sign of Pedro Gonzales. He counted the bodies as the rest of his men caught up. “Pedro must have chased the rest of them back toward the town.”
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